


If You Could See Where I've Been

by Calephelis



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (Cartoon 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: (he does swear a lot though), (he isn't), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dyslexic Beetlejuice, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spiders, bj desperately wants you to think he's a heartless bastard, emily deetz is heavily mentioned but isn't really a character (yet), mainly musicalverse, rated m now because bj, some headcanons, with a heaping helping of cartoonverse and a dash of movieverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24552505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calephelis/pseuds/Calephelis
Summary: When Betelgeuse met the newly-dead Emily Deetz, getting roped into being her daughter's Guardian Demon™ was not part of the plan -- but, well, here he was.
Relationships: Adam Maitland/Barbara Maitland, Beetlejuice & Lydia Deetz, Charles Deetz & Lydia Deetz, Charles Deetz/Delia Deetz
Comments: 27
Kudos: 92





	1. like a guardian angel, but with more cussing

Lydia Deetz was pretty sure she was being followed.

The first time she’d noticed this, she thought nothing of it. For as long as she could remember, she’d had the ability to see spirits, supernatural beings -- the works. Her mother called it a gift; her father tried to ignore it; teachers would smile and nod whenever Lydia mentioned her “friends”, and her peers would say she was a witch and give her a wide berth. She’d gotten used to these spirits being her only companions, especially when they started gravitating towards her like moths to a flame. There was always at least _one_ hovering around, sometimes even two or three or five, desperate for contact with someone who wasn’t dead.

They didn’t usually stick around for more than a month, though.

Nor were they usually as quiet as this one seemed to be.

In fact, whoever they were, they seemed content to stay directly out of her line of sight. The only indication she was being followed _at all_ was the unmistakable chill that all spirits brought with them. It was a feeling Lydia knew well.

She just wished they would _talk_ to her.

After two months, she’d started coming up with some theories. The idea that they were malevolent was tossed out immediately -- malevolent spirits were always the least chatty, but they weren’t _silent_. They’d whisper to Lydia, taunt her and just generally be a nuisance, not give her the (figurative) cold shoulder. Besides, those kinds of spirits always had a certain _vibe_ to them, like their entire being radiated hatred. Lydia couldn’t sense anything like that from her new tag-along.

Were they just shy? Their insistence on avoiding her certainly pointed to that possibility. As long as they refused to speak with her, Lydia couldn’t gauge the spirit’s personality at all. She’d just have to wait for them to make themself known.

Yet, three months in and they continued to be silent. Oh, she was still definitely being followed -- every now and then, Lydia would catch a glimpse of… _something_ out of the corner of her eye -- and she had grown familiar enough with the spirit to know when they were there. No one else had approached her, either, and she wondered if the spirit was scaring all the others away. Even if they weren’t doing it intentionally, if they were powerful enough then their mere presence would deter other spirits from bothering Lydia. It had happened before, after all -- when she was nine, a particularly strong-willed ghost took a liking to Lydia and wouldn’t let anyone else get near her for an entire week.

That thought brought with it another possibility, one that had been in the back of her mind ever since all this started. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider it before, but maybe…

Maybe the spirit was actually her mother.

Emily Deetz had been dead for three months now. Only a few days after her funeral, Lydia noticed that she was being followed by a spirit. That _couldn’t_ just be a coincidence, could it?

Lydia decided to bring it up with her father one morning. Sure, he never outwardly acknowledged her sixth sense, but maybe he would feel differently if she mentioned Mom. They hadn’t discussed her _at all_ since she died; if the spirit _was_ Mom, that could very well be what she was waiting for.

Hesitant, Lydia stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched her father crack a couple eggs into the frying pan. It took a few moments for him to notice her, and he gave his daughter a curious look.

“Did you need something, Lydia?”

“I think I’m being haunted by Mom’s ghost,” she blurted out.

The ensuing silence was palpable. Time seemed to stretch on into infinity. Only the sizzle of breakfast anchored them to the present, reminding them of their existence.

Lydia’s father blinked and turned his attention back to the frying pan. “So, uh, do you want your eggs scrambled or sunny-side up?”

After that, any further attempts to bring up Dead Mom seemed to fall on deaf ears. Her father must have mentioned something to Lydia’s shrink, because the teen was soon being inundated with links to articles from self-help blogs (all of them with titles like “5 Ways to Cope with Audio-Visual Hallucinations” and “Processing Death in the Age of Social Media”).

“I’m just trying to help you!” said Delia during one of their Skype sessions (she _still_ insisted on using Skype, no matter how many times Lydia told her there were better alternatives). “And I’m not a _shrink_ \-- I’m a _life coach!_ ”

Eventually, Lydia gave up. In hindsight, she should have known that her father wouldn’t believe her; he hadn’t before, so why would he start now? It was only her _mom_ , after all. Three months became four months, became five months, became six months… Lydia could hardly believe that her mother had been dead for this long, and yet at the same time it didn’t feel very long at all. Maybe it was because she’d never truly left.

Still, why wouldn’t she say anything?

That was, ultimately, the biggest question on Lydia’s mind. It didn’t make sense, usually she’d be _begging_ a spirit to shut up, but the one spirit Lydia wanted to talk to wouldn’t even make herself visible to her own daughter. Did she not _want_ to talk? Was she unable to? That was it, wasn’t it -- there was some weird rule that ghosts had, keeping them from interacting with the people they knew in life. If that was the case, why had Lydia’s mother stuck around for this long? What was keeping her here? Was there anything Lydia could do to help?

These questions whirled through Lydia’s mind as she stared up at the ceiling, splayed out on her bed like a rag doll, too exhausted to even bother changing into pajamas. She’d felt too tired to do much of anything lately. Her grades were slipping, she knew, but she couldn’t bring herself to care -- all she could think about was her mother. The ever-present chill that signaled Dead Mom’s presence was comforting; if she closed her eyes and focused only on that feeling, Lydia could almost pretend that her mother was enveloping her in a hug.

“Hey… Mom? Are you there?” she called out into the dark room, though she wasn’t expecting an answer.

The ensuing silence was palpable.

. . .

He had to admit, he was impressed. The kid wasn’t that far off the mark --

\-- about there being some bullshit rule against newly-deads talking to their still-breathing relatives, that is. All that stuff about her mom watching over her, like something ripped straight from a shitty Hallmark movie? Yeah, no. Betelgeuse might have thought very highly of himself, but he’d _met_ Emily Deetz, and she was _way_ sexier than he could ever hope to be.

Not the point, sure, but -- okay, maybe he should explain why he was here.

It was a funny story, actually. See, Betelgeuse was a bio-exorcist, someone who scared away breathers for the spirits who couldn’t do it themselves. He loved his job, it was a great gig for a demon like himself -- so imagine his surprise when he came across this _smokin’ hot_ newly-dead, made a pact with her, and she _didn’t_ want him to scare anyone.

No, _instead_ she wanted him to babysit her fucking daughter.

Needless to say, that wasn’t exactly in the job description. The demon had done a lot of wild shit for his clients, from possessing dolls and light fixtures to turning into a giant snake, but this was the first time Betelgeuse had been forced to do something so completely out of his depth. With the contract already signed, he couldn’t just back out on his end of the deal (last time he’d tried that he’d ended up with the _worst_ hangover, and he hadn’t even been drinking). In other words, he was screwed -- and not in the fun way.

But Christ on a stick was this kid mopey as all hell. He knew her mom had died and all (apparently some breathers had decent parents; couldn’t relate), but half the time she looked more dead than _he_ did. And don’t even get Betelgeuse started on that sixth sense bullshit. When that damned newly dead sealed his fate, his ability to become invisible to breathers had been the demon’s only solace. After all, if the brat couldn’t see him, then he could ignore her in turn.

So _of course_ the kid turned out to be one of the 0.0001% of breathers who could communicate with the supernatural; no amount of demonic magic would prevent someone like _that_ from seeing him. Betelgeuse had the sneaking suspicion that her mom knew all this, too. What, was she expecting him to become the girl’s imaginary friend? _Him?_ A millennia-old demon?

Well, fuck that. He wasn’t so pathetic that he’d befriend some angsty teen just because an attractive spirit told him to.

Besides, following a teenage girl around was creepy in a way that didn’t sit well with the demon. Sure, he’d been called a pervert (and other, less flattering names) plenty of times by plenty of people, but he wasn’t _that_ kind of pervert. It was a big reason why Betelgeuse had been going out of his way to stay out of her sight. Since the girl (Lauren? Lacey?) could sense him regardless, his only recourse was to make sure she didn’t get a good look at him. Especially since she’d already decided that he was actually her mother -- if she saw who had _really_ been haunting her, who knew how she would react?

(To be _absolutely clear_ , Betelgeuse was _not_ worried about the kid’s psyche, he just didn’t want to deal with the blow back, alright? Alright.)

As long as she didn’t die, then the demon was more or less keeping his end of the bargain. And, hey, the teen seemed oddly comforted by his presence (not a concept he was accustomed to), so he must be doing _something_ right. Either that, or Lana was just a weird kid.

He peered around the girl’s bedroom, his gaze falling on the black walls, the repurposed Halloween decorations, the half-open closet filled with clothing in an impressive array of monotones. Betelgeuse only ever dipped into this room long enough to make sure the kid was still breathing, but he’d seen it so many times at this point that he’d practically memorized the layout. It reflected its inhabitant well, a combination of dour and macabre that made the demon’s skin itch. Not even the _Netherworld_ embraced death so fully, and it was full of dead people.

Yeah, he was leaning towards “weird kid” right now.

“Hey… Mom? Are you there?”

Betelgeuse froze. These were the moments he hated the most -- when the teenager would talk to her “mother”, as though any ghost would suddenly get chatty after months of silence. It was irritating as fuck, and yet more than once the demon considered responding, with a shitty impression and everything. Would Leslie buy it if he told her that her “mom” sounded different because of a lack of physical vocal cords?

Biting his tongue before he did something he might regret, Betelgeuse drifted backwards through the wall until he was standing (well, floating) in the Deetzes' living room. He’d seen plenty of living rooms in his time, and this one was among the most unremarkable. Lots of modern furniture, bland colors, and tasteful decor, because Daddy Deetz was nothing if not _tasteful_. Betelgeuse could hear the man’s voice drifting in from the adjacent hallway--

“--orried about her. One of her teachers called me earlier, and I... “

Ah, so it was about the kid; he had to admit, he was curious. Despite the contract, he wasn’t _physically_ bound to her or anything, so Betelgeuse didn’t need to be by the girl 24/7 (because, again, that would be creepy). Whenever she went to school, the demon only followed her as far as the building’s front gate before teleporting back to the Deetzes' house. She didn’t _seem_ to be bothered by his absence during those hours, but maybe...

Betelgeuse floated into the hallway -- just as boringly average as the living room -- and found Mr. Deetz standing at the far end near the stairs, phone to his ear.

“She hasn’t said anything to you, has she…?” said Mr. Deetz; there was a beat of silence as the man listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. “Y-Yes, yes, I know it’s confidential, but… Lydia refuses to speak to me about it…”

So _that’s_ what the kid’s name was. Betelgeuse made a mental note to write it down-- How was it spelled? L-E-D-E-E--

“Yes, I… I think so, too. I’m planning on telling her tomorrow.” Another beat. “Of course. It should take at least a few weeks to get everything sorted.”

The demon’s ears twitched; he _hated_ only having one half of a conversation to work from. What was happening? Did it have something to do with Lydia? What did her teacher say? Betelgeuse let out a growl of frustration and drew closer until he was hovering mere inches away from Mr. Deetz.

“Right, well, I suppose I should start packing. I’ll call you again after I’ve spoken with Lydia.”

With that, Mr. Deetz said his goodbyes to the mystery breather and hung up, tucking his phone away in the pocket of his suit jacket. As the man disappeared up the stairs, Betelgeuse turned all this new information around in his mind. _Something_ was going on, and it involved… packing and sorting stuff? And maybe Lydia, but her connection was still unclear. Either way, the demon had a feeling it was all going to be a pain in the ass.

He was right.

The following morning was, in a word, awkward -- but then, it was _always_ awkward between Lydia and Mr. Deetz, ever since her little outburst all those months ago. It was a school day, so the kid wasn’t having anything more complicated than toast for breakfast, but you’d think she was making a damn soufflé with how intensely she stared at the toaster. Her father was sitting at the kitchen table, staring just as intensely into his coffee.

Betelgeuse had to clamp down on the urge to blurt out something ridiculous (and probably inappropriate) just to break the silence. To the demon’s relief, Mr. Deetz was the one to finally end that morning’s stalemate.

“So… We’ll be moving to Connecticut.”

Slowly, Lydia turned to face her father; Betelgeuse blinked to the other side of the kitchen, out of her line of sight. “When?” she asked.

“In about two weeks. I have a neighborhood in mind, but if none of the houses get put up for sale soon we might have to spend some time in a hotel.”

“And we’re leaving anyway.”

Mr. Deetz let out a sigh. “Yes, we are. I… I think we both know we can’t stay here anymore.”

“Why not?” said Lydia. Up until now the kid had done a bang-up job keeping her expression passive -- now, though, there was a frown on her face that was rapidly becoming a scowl.

“Lydia--”

“Wait, let me guess: It’s because of Mom, isn’t it?”

“No, it-- it has nothing to do with, with her--”

“ _Don’t lie to me!_ ” Lydia snapped. “You won’t talk about her -- you won’t even say her name! Do you think I’ll just, like, _get over it_ if we move, or something?”

“That’s not it! Lydia, I--” Mr. Deetz cut himself off, frowning, and took a swig of his coffee before starting over. “To tell you the truth, I chose Connecticut because that’s where Delia’s office is. I thought, maybe… maybe it might be better if you were able to have your sessions face-to-face. That’s all.”

All the fight seemed to drain from Lydia, the scowl on her face smoothing back to a more disgruntled look. She snatched the toast (that had long since popped from the toaster), slung her book bag over her shoulder, and stomped out of the kitchen without so much as a goodbye.

Damn. Betelgeuse had kinda been hoping she would punch her dad. To give the guy _some_ credit, though, he didn’t yell or throw anything at his daughter as she left, so uh, father of the year?

(Admittedly, Betelgeuse might’ve been projecting a bit.)

Not wanting to stick around for the pity party, the demon followed Lydia. The walk to school wasn’t any less awkward than breakfast had been. Lydia radiated nervous energy, which in turn made _him_ nervous because he was pretty sure she wanted to say something to him (or rather, her “mom”) and he really wished she would stop trying.

“Hey, so, I’ve been wondering...”

But of course, Betelgeuse never did get what he wanted.

“You can leave the house, but you always disappear whenever I’m at school.” So she _did_ notice. “Is it like, you can only travel up to a certain distance? Or is it the school itself?”

It suddenly occurred to the demon that he could’ve just kept to the house this entire time and prevented this whole non-conversation. The only reason he started escorting her in the first place was so he could make sure she didn’t, like, get hit by a car or some shit, but that had yet to happen. Fucking hell, was hanging around these breathers making him go soft?

“S-Sorry, I know you can’t respond, I just… If we’re gonna be moving soon…”

Oh. 

_That’s_ what she was worried about. 

Once again, he felt an overwhelming urge to _fucking say something, you dipshit, who cares about the consequences_ \-- and once again, it was the equally powerful urge to avoid the inevitable drama that won out. Still, if he didn’t do _something_ to reassure her she’d probably be agonizing over this for Satan knew how long. Obviously that wouldn’t be keeping her “safe and happy” in accordance with the contract so, _obviously_ , the demon’s only option was to… awkwardly pat her on the head.

The reaction was instantaneous. The moment Betelgeuse’s hand made contact with her head the girl whirled around, wide-eyed, and the demon had to bite back a number of colorful curses as he teleported into the nearest tree. Hiding between the branches, he watched as Lydia’s eyes scanned the empty street. Slowly, she reached a hand up to where Betelgeuse had touched her (ugh, he was already regretting his decision) and, to his amazement, a small smile spread across her face. Before he could process what he was seeing, Lydia turned around and continued her trek to school, leaving the demon alone with his mess of emotions.

If he had a mirror, he was certain his hair would be going _wild_ right now. All demons could shapeshift, but for whatever reason Betelgeuse was uniquely terrible at controlling it -- far too often, his body would transform against his will just because someone made a fucking _pun_ in his vicinity. But it was his hair that gave him the most grief, constantly shifting colors based on how he was feeling, like a goddamn mood ring. He hated it, had spent entire _centuries_ trying to get it under control, and for the most part it _was_ under control now, but sometimes…

Well, sometimes he made a complete fool of himself and then got kicked in the teeth when some brat had the _audacity_ to smile anyway, because she thought it was her mom who was trying to comfort her.

Jesus Christ, he really _was_ getting soft, wasn’t he?

Seeing as Lydia would have already arrived at her high school by now, Betelgeuse snapped his fingers and reappeared in the Deetzes’ house. A commotion upstairs drew his attention, and he drifted through the walls until he found the source of the noise -- Mr. Deetz was in the spare bedroom that they used for storage, staring dumbfounded at the closet, half-buried in cardboard boxes. The scene gave the demon an almost perfect picture of what had happened: Lydia’s father opening the closet door, probably intending to start packing--

Right. They were going to be moving in two weeks. 

Thinking about it, the demon realized that he hadn’t _really_ assuaged Lydia’s fears. He had meant for it be a “there there, everything will be all right” head pat, but the kid very well could have interpreted it as a “I am so very, very sorry” head pat, and -- _ugh_ , there was that itchy feeling again. He’d fucked up. He’d tried to make her feel better, but all he could manage was some bullshit conciliatory gesture that meant nothing. Why did her mom think giving him this job was a good idea?

As he watched Mr. Deetz struggle to free himself from his cardboard prison, an idea came to Betelgeuse. Using his demonically-empowered (and rad as hell) telekinesis, he grabbed a few of the boxes while the breather was distracted and brought them to Lydia’s room. Betelgeuse started with the Halloween decorations, pulling them from the walls and shelves and Tetris-ing them into the first box until it was full. Then he moved on to the books, then the sketchbooks and photo albums and the myriad art supplies that Lydia kept in the bottom drawer of her dresser. He left her clothes alone -- it would’ve felt like a breach of privacy, and he was shit at folding laundry anyway -- but almost everything else was packed away. 

The demon was about halfway through stacking all the boxes into a pyramid before he realized he should _probably_ label them so Lydia knew which box held what. As Betelgeuse returned to the storage room (now clear of Mr. Deetz) and rummaged around for a permanent marker, another idea came to him. Back in Lydia’s room, he opened the box containing the art supplies, grabbed a pen, and flipped open one of her sketchbooks until he found an empty page. 

His penmanship was terrible, his spelling sucked, and he most definitely sounded _nothing_ like Emily, but if it reassured Lydia even a little bit then Betelgeuse would happily blow his cover. Anything to keep the kid from being all mopey and making him feel _sympathy_ for her.

Once he was satisfied with what he had written, Betelgeuse tore the page out of the sketchbook and placed his note on the box labeled “photargaphy.”

And then he waited.

. . .

When Lydia returned home from school, the last thing she expected was to find a huge pile of boxes in the middle of her bedroom -- and yet, here she was. Judging from the fact that her room seemed to have been emptied of its possessions, she could at least surmise what was _in_ all those boxes, but then that brought up another question: Who packed all her stuff away?

It couldn’t have been her dad; Lydia was 99.9% certain that he was intending to make her do all that work herself. But if it wasn’t him, then…

Something on one of the boxes suddenly caught her eye. Drawing closer, she realized it was a piece of paper -- a note? The writing was atrocious, but it was still legible, and she took a seat at her now-empty desk as she read.

_Dear Ledeeuh,_

_Sory for not speeking too you til now, newly deads arnt suposed too talk to there living realtives and I’m braking the rules just righting this too yuo._   
_Aslo sory for the speeling holding a pen wen your a ghost is hrad._   
_I wnanted too tell you that you dnot have to wrory about moving, I’m bound too yuo not tihs house. I culd enter the skool if I wantde to, I just dont._   
_I pakced sum of youre stuff, I hope this mkaes up for all the silense. Rembeber: I’ll awlways be hear for you._

_Love, Yuore Mom_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY. Welcome to my current hyperfixation. I just kinda happened to find myself listening to the cast recording because of a podcast, and I ended up enjoying it waaay more than I thought I might. It reminded me of what I liked about the movie and cartoon.
> 
> To clarify a few things: Betelgeuse is, for the purposes of this AU, NOT cursed. Also, I'll be spelling his name "Betelgeuse" throughout (most) of the fic, so, apologies to any readers used to the other spelling. As I've indicated in the tags, this is based primarily on the musical, but really I'll be taking all three canons and just kinda... stitching them together haphazardly.
> 
> Next chapter: The Maitlands enter the mix!


	2. my friend, the talking pink spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some mild body horror and (brief) references to suicide (but it's Miss Argentina so, y'know,)

Barbara’s neck hurt.

In fact, her whole _body_ hurt.

What happened? Where was Adam? Where was _she?_ It looked like their house, their… Was this the living room? Hadn’t they been in the attic before they… They…

“B-Barbara...?”

She spun around (ignoring the pain in her _everything_ ) to find her husband struggling to get to his feet. Barbara couldn’t quite tell _why_ at first, until she noticed that his right leg seemed to be bent at an odd angle -- God, she could even see _bone_ sticking out of the calf. It made her sick just looking at it, but she pushed that feeling down and was at Adam’s side in an instant.

“Thanks,” he murmured as Barbara helped him up, letting him use her shoulder for support.

If his weight caused a jolt of pain to shoot through her spine, well, she wasn’t going to tell _him_ that. Not when he was clearly more in need of medical attention. 

It was strange, though… She couldn’t remember how they got down here. Barbara was pretty sure they hadn’t left the attic, and yet here they were, a whole two stories below. Plus the living room was a _mess_ , there was debris _everywhere_ and they… appeared to be standing on a broken pile of wood? This wasn’t from one of Adam’s projects, was it? No, it couldn’t be, they both kept anything pertaining to their hobbies in the attic, which was _where they were supposed to be_ , so how--

“Um, Barbara? Are you okay?”

“H-Huh?” She pulled herself from her thoughts and turned back to her husband. “I’m fine, I was just thinking… And shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that? Your leg’s broken!”

“It doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think it would,” he said, glancing down and wincing at the sight. “E-Either that, or it’s gone numb.”

Barbara bit her lip. “Can you walk? I-I mean-- obviously you _can’t_ , but I need to call an ambulance and I can’t just _leave_ you here--”

“There won’t be any need for that!” said an unfamiliar voice. It sounded like a woman (with an inexplicable New York accent) but, glancing around, there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the room except for Barbara and Adam.

“Oi, I’m up here.”

Barbara glanced up, her eyes drawn first to the hole in the ceiling (so _that’s_ where all the debris came from) -- and then she caught sight of the _large pink spider_ hanging from one of the broken support beams. The spider wiggled one of their limbs in a way that Barbara assumed was meant to be a wave. Adam let out a shriek and stumbled backwards, dragging his wife with him as he fell.

“Oh dear. I was afraid this would happen,” said the spider -- because there was no one else that voice could be coming from, Barbara swore she could even see the creature’s mouth parts moving as they (she?) spoke. The spider looked to be about as big as a tarantula, maybe a little bigger, and upon closer inspection there appeared to be some sort of toy-sized knapsack strapped to her abdomen. It almost would’ve been cute, if Barbara wasn’t so horrified and bewildered.

“I told her, _hey, what if they’re arachnophobic?_ ” the spider continued, exasperated, as she began to lower herself by a thread (much to Adam’s obvious discomfort). “And she just brushed me off! Can you believe that?! How am I s’posed to do my job if people are scared of me?”

“Job…?” Barbara parroted in a strained voice.

“To Guide you to the Netherworld.”

Adam blinked, the fear on his face giving way to confusion; Barbara was certain her expression must’ve mirrored his. “E-Excuse me?”

“Oh, right! You probably haven’t realized it yet, huh? Here, would one’a you mind openin’ up my pack for me? I would, but I’m all leg.”

Barbara looked to her trembling husband. Between the two of them, she was the one least afraid of spiders, but that didn’t mean she was all that eager to approach something her brain had yet to fully process.

Still, if this was a hallucination, it was a very vivid one.

Adam met her gaze and, as though sensing her intention, let go of her arm, giving her an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. She nodded back, got to her feet, and slowly picked her away across the remains of the second-story floor until she was close enough to the spider to make out each individual eye staring back at her. While Barbara wouldn’t exactly call herself an expert on arachnid body language, the creature didn’t _seem_ to be gearing up to attack… So she was safe, right?

“Don’t be shy; I’m not venomous!” said the spider. “And even if I was I wouldn’t just _bite_ you, that’d be a _terrible_ first impression to make on a client.”

Pushing through her hesitance, Barbara knelt down and opened the spider’s knapsack. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting to find inside, but a book and a piece of chalk were probably very low on that list. The book was clearly old, bound in leather, and its pages were dog-eared. There was no author listed on the front, only a title: _Handbook for the Recently Deceased_.

A sour feeling settled in her stomach as Barbara read those words. “Wh-What is this?”

“Exactly what it says,” the spider told her. “You’re -- how do I put this kindly? The two’a you are dead.”

The book fell from Barbara’s hands with a soft _thud_. Behind her, she could hear her husband’s sharp inhale of breath. 

( _If we really_ were _dead then we wouldn’t need to breathe, would we?_ a desperate voice in her head supplied.)

“I-I’m sorry, was that too harsh? This is my first time Guidin’ newly-deads, and I _did_ take the courses and, and did all the required readin’, but I wasn’t expectin’ to have a case so _soon_ …”

Barbara ignored the spider’s nervous rambling and turned her gaze back to the hole in the ceiling. She had to admit, it _did_ explain all the discrepancies -- how they got downstairs, what happened to the two floors above them, why Adam wasn’t in excruciating pain. It didn’t explain why _she_ still hurt, but then again, this _was_ her first time being dead. Maybe it was like that… what was it called? Phantom Limb Syndrome? And speaking of--

“So, if we’re dead, then that would make us… what? Ghosts?”

“Yes, exactly! You catch on quick!” said the spider, the tone of her voice suggesting that if she’d had the anatomy for it, she’d be smiling at Barbara.

“If, if that’s the case,” Adam spoke up, adjusting his glasses, “th-then where are our bodies?”

“Underneath that pile of wood.”

Adam paled and scrambled off of the broken floorboard he’d been sitting on. It was almost impressive how quickly he moved; even with a broken leg, he was by Barbara’s side again within seconds, leaning heavily against her. She grasped his hand and tried very hard not to think about what their corpses looked like.

“You mentioned a… a Netherworld?” she said to the spider.

“Right! You’d know it better as the _afterlife_. It’s where the souls of the dead go,” the spider replied. Barbara could feel Adam’s grip on her hand tighten as the creature crawled past them and up the wall. “That’s what the chalk’s for -- just draw a door and we’ll be on our way!”

The couple locked eyes with one another. Barbara didn’t have to say anything to know that her husband was thinking the same thing she was: Even if this Netherworld _was_ real, and they _were_ dead… how willing were they to trust a _talking spider?_ Sure, she _seemed_ friendly enough, but what if it was all an act meant to lure them into a false sense of security? They were confused, and vulnerable, and Barbara was familiar enough with fantasy to know that following a giant spider into (what could be) their lair was a bad idea.

“And what… what if we don’t go to the Netherworld?” she asked.

The spider stared at them. “Why wouldya wanna do that?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ we?” said Barbara. “We just met you, yet you want us to follow you into God-knows-where? You haven’t even told us your name!”

“Y-Yeah!” said Adam. “How do we know you aren’t just planning to eat us?!”

“You-- You think I’m here to _eat_ you?” the spider said, incredulous. “But, okay, that’s fair. I have been kinda rude, haven’t I?”

The spider descended the wall and once again approached them (though she still kept her distance, Barbara noted), holding out one of her forelimbs as if she were expecting a handshake.

“The name’s Ginger. It’s a pleasure to meetcha!”

Adam blinked. “It’s a, uh, pleasure to meet you, too, Miss Ginger.”

“Oh, please! Just Ginger is fine,” she replied, giggling. “And don’t worry about introducin’ yourselves to me, I read your files before I got here.”

“Alright…” Barbara said, briefly wondering what was in those files. “B-But we still don’t have any reason to trust you!”

“That’s true, and I get where you’re comin’ from,” Ginger said, finally lowering her forelimb. “Hrm… If you don’t mind indulgin’ me, I think I should show you somethin’.”

Before either of them could respond, the spider had already left the room. The couple exchanged another look before (reluctantly) following her into the hallway. With the shock of everything finally starting to fade, Barbara noticed something she hadn’t before: their footsteps made no sound. It was jarring, not hearing that familiar click of her heels against the hardwood floor, or the soft thump of Adam’s loafers as they crossed the rug his mother had given them last Christmas.

How long have they been dead? Did their family know? If their bodies were still in the house, then probably not… So many thoughts were racing through Barbara’s head -- about their funeral, or how they never did get around to writing their wills -- that she didn’t realize they had arrived at their apparent destination until she felt Adam yank her into a dead (heh) stop.

“ _You almost stepped on Ginger_ ,” he stage-whispered, indicating to the spider curled up against what Barbara recognized as their front door.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I was lost in thought…”

“I-It’s all right!” Ginger said quickly, though the tone of her voice suggested she was a _little_ upset. “A-Anyway! Could, uh, one’a you try openin’ the door, if you don’t mind?”

Barbara, of course, was the one to volunteer -- though Adam was adjusting well to only having one usable leg, he was still a bit unsteady on his feet. Once her husband was safely propped up against the wall (and Ginger had scurried out of the way), she twisted the doorknob--

\--and was greeted with a desolate, sandy landscape stretching far into the horizon, desert wind whipping at her hair.

She stared, wide-eyed. Last Barbara checked, she and her husband had been living in a small village in upstate Connecticut -- a place not known for its deserts.

“Y’see,” Ginger began as the couple’s stunned silence continued on, “when a human dies, their souls are bound to wherever they last were; in your guys’ case, it’s your house. Tryin’ to leave on your own won’t work, ‘cause every door outta here is just gonna lead you _there_. And trust me, you _don’t_ wanna go there.”

Barbara swallowed, finally finding her voice. “What-- What’s out there?”

“Sandworms.”

Ginger didn’t elaborate further. Barbara decided not to ask.

Shutting the door, she found that Adam had gone as white as a sheet. Barbara grasped his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, then turned back to the spider.

“So, we can’t leave the house…”

“Unless it’s to go to the Netherworld,” said Ginger. “That’s why I’m here! To make sure you get there safely. Normally it’d be another ghost, but, well… We’re kinda short-staffed at the moment…”

“And if we don’t follow you, then we’re stuck here.”

“Pretty much, yep.”

Barbara let out a sigh and looked to her husband. Adam’s gaze was firmly on the ground, and he was chewing at his bottom lip; she could almost imagine what sort of internal debate he was having with himself. Finally, he seemed to come to a conclusion and met her gaze, reluctant but resigned.

“Well… we don’t really have much of a choice, do we?”

“I guess not.” Giving his hand another squeeze, Barbara fixed Ginger with a look of determination. “Fine. We’ll go to the Netherworld.”

“Perfect!” the spider said, sounding pleased. “Now before we leave, make sure to pick up that _Handbook_ you dropped earlier -- you’re gonna want somethin’ to read when we get there.”

. . .

When Ginger first mentioned the Netherworld, Adam had already started forming an image in his mind of some dark, subterranean realm filled with monstrous creatures not unlike the spider herself. And, okay, so _maybe_ that image was heavily informed by all the D&D he’d played in college -- in fact, this entire situation was very reminiscent of a campaign his friend Marla had DM’d once -- but who could blame him? He was still processing the whole _talking spider_ thing. If he had to pretend that Ginger was a NPC giving them their first quest, well, that was just his coping method, alright?

Needless to say, Adam was both relieved and disappointed to find that the Netherworld was a lot more mundane than he had assumed.

Sure, the chalk door transforming into a real door was certainly impressive, and the spiraling tunnel it led to was needlessly long, but it worked well at building suspense. All that suspense was immediately shattered, however, when the three of them came upon another door at the end of the tunnel. Barbara was the one to open it, of course -- _beautiful, brave Barbara_ \-- but instead of the myriad fantasy environments flitting through Adam’s mind, they were met with… a waiting room?

Yes, it definitely looked like a waiting room.

Like, the kind of waiting room you’d find at a Social Security office, or maybe the DMV; Adam suddenly felt like he was getting his driver’s license renewed all over again. The only indication that they _weren’t_ in a normal waiting room was that everyone in it appeared to be very, very dead. Almost all of them were sporting noticeably fatal wounds -- one man had a _large metal rod_ pierced through his skull -- and many outright looked like extras in a zombie film.

The receptionist, a red-headed young woman with sickly green skin, looked up as the door shut behind the three of them. Her eyes fell upon Adam and Barbara first, lighting up in recognition when she caught sight of the spider (who had taken to perching herself atop Barbara’s head during their trek through the tunnel).

“Ginger, how good to see you!” the receptionist greeted in an accent that suggested her first language was Spanish. She was already turning back to the (very outdated) computer at her desk as she continued, “I take it they’re the newly-deads you were assigned to Guide?”

“Heya, Miss A! That they are! Barbara and--”

“--Adam Maitland, yes, I see their files now. If the two of you would be so kind as to take a seat, your caseworker should be with you shortly.”

As it turned out, the only available chairs left were next to the man with the metal rod. Adam gave the man a polite smile as the couple sat down -- and then immediately diverted his gaze when he realized the rod was driven straight through the man’s _eye socket_. Barbara must have noticed this as well, as he felt her give his hand yet another comforting squeeze. The man, at least, didn’t seem offended, his attention fully on the book in his hands.

“Now that _that’s_ taken care of,” Ginger spoke up, reminding Adam of her presence, “I’m afraid this is where we’re gonna part ways.”

Barbara frowned as the spider crawled into her lap (and somehow managed to not get herself tangled in the ghost’s long, blonde hair on the way down). “What do you mean? Aren’t you our, um, Guide?”

“ _To_ the Netherworld. As in, my job ends once you guys are actually here.”

“So, that’s… that’s it, then?” Adam said; he had to admit, as wary as he still felt towards the spider, all things considered she had been nothing but friendly and helpful to them. To say goodbye to her so _soon_ …

“Aww, don’t worry! Whoever’s been assigned as your caseworker, I’m sure they’ll be great!” said Ginger. “Y’know, everyone workin’ here is real nice. Well… except--”

“Ginger, Juno wants to see you!” the receptionist suddenly called out. Adam wasn’t exactly an expert on arachnid body language, but he could’ve _sworn_ he saw Ginger cringe.

“ _Speak of the devil…_ ” the spider muttered, leaping from Barbara’s lap and scurrying to the door beside the reception desk. Adam almost wanted to get up and open it for her, but to his surprise the door swung open by itself the moment she approached -- either it was automatic (despite not looking like one), or that was just something that happened in the Netherworld.

He had a feeling there were a _lot_ of strange things about this world he was going to have to get used to.

As he settled back into his seat, Adam shifted his legs into a more comfortable position -- and was _very quickly_ reminded that one of them was broken. To be honest, he’d gotten so used to the dull pain that it felt like it was a part of him now, like he couldn’t remember a time his leg _wasn’t_ broken. He hadn’t been lying to Barbara -- it really _didn’t_ hurt as much as it should have, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt at all. He just didn’t want to worry her.

The man beside him shifted; Adam yelped and had to duck his head to avoid getting hit by the metal rod.

“Need help with that?”

Adam blinked, turning to the man (and then immediately diverting his eyes again). “Wh-What?”

“Your leg.”

Against his better judgement, Adam met the man’s gaze for a third time, willing himself not to look away. The man seemed… sincere? At least from what Adam could tell, that metal rod in his face made it somewhat difficult to parse out an expression. Though unsure how the man could possibly help without any clear medical supplies on his person, Adam nodded anyway.

And immediately regretted it.

Without any warning, the man grabbed his leg with both hands and, in one swift motion, snapped the bone back in place. Adam had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stifle his scream, his grip on Barbara’s hand becoming vice-like. Even as the pain subsided, and the man began to wrap the leg with his own flannel shirt, Adam didn’t loosen his grip -- not until the man had let go of his leg, giving him something approximating an apologetic look.

“Sorry. Thought it’d be better if I did it fast.”

“Th-That’s, that’s quite alright...” Adam stuttered, rubbing soothing circles into Barbara’s palm as she winced and flexed her fingers.

“You’ll have to make a proper splint later, but that should do it for now,” said the man. “My Guide told me our wounds don’t heal when we’re dead.”

Adam frowned. “So my leg’s always going to be broken?”

The man shrugged. “Probably.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Barbara said, giving Adam a small (if pained) smile.

With that, the man went silent again, turning his attention back to his book -- the _Handbook_ , Adam realized, recognizing the cover. He dug into the front pocket of his trousers and pulled out their own copy, turning it over in his hand before flipping it open. If this waiting room was anything like the waiting rooms he’d been in when he was alive, then they were going to be here for a while.

(Now that he thought about it, this must be what Ginger had been alluding to earlier.)

The book’s contents were about as dry as his old college textbooks, but it was a decent enough distraction as the minutes dragged on. He wasn’t wearing a watch, and the room didn’t seem to have a clock anywhere, but it felt like an hour or two had passed by the time Adam finished reading and gave the _Handbook_ to Barbara. The man with the metal rod in his skull must have had his name called at some point, because the moment Adam looked up he found that the chair next to him was now empty. The flannel shirt was still wrapped around his leg; should he find the man and give it back to him, or was it intentionally left behind? 

Adam heard the receptionist call out again, but it wasn’t either of their names. Across from them, on the other side of the room, a woman wrapped in a bath towel and holding a toaster approached the reception desk; he watched as the receptionist spoke with the woman and then directed her to the same door Ginger had entered earlier. This pattern continued, over and over again -- the receptionist would call out a name and the number of people in the room would be whittled down, one by one. Occasionally, someone new would enter from the same door the couple had come in through, but it never became as crowded as it had been when they first arrived.

“Hey, did you know our family can hold a séance for us?”

Adam blinked and turned to his wife. “Er, yes, I remember that part.”

Judging by everything he’d read in the _Handbook_ , the Netherworld had an almost comical amount of rules to follow, especially when you were newly-dead. Apparently, you weren’t allowed to talk with your still-living relatives -- yet there were a number of ways around that. It was incredibly complicated (and involved a lot of paperwork), but it was doable.

“I was thinking earlier... We never did write out our wills before we died,” Barbara said, gaze still firmly on the book and a frown on her face. Adam’s eyes widened in realization.

“That’s true… If we could communicate with them, we could hash out the inheritance that way.” 

“Exactly! We--”

“Adam and Barbara Maitland!” the receptionist’s voice rang out, startling the both of them. Barbara snapped the _Handbook_ shut and, using her free hand to once again grasp Adam’s, led him to the reception desk. Walking was still slow and arduous (maybe even more so now, what with the makeshift bandage), but he managed, and the receptionist at least looked sympathetic.

“You know, there’s a clinic across the street that could help with that,” said the green-skinned woman. This close, Adam could now see the tell-tale cuts running along her wrists; he looked up and tried not to think too hard about how she got them.

“There are clinics in the Netherworld?”

“Of course! You aren’t exactly the first newly-dead to come here with a debilitating pre-death injury.”

“O-Oh, well… Thank you for telling me.”

“Think nothing of it,” the receptionist said with a smile. “Now, if you would head through that door to my right, Juno’s office is at the very end of the hallway; you can’t miss it.”

They’d heard that name earlier, hadn’t they? Ginger had been called to meet someone named Juno -- and, from what Adam could remember, the spider hadn’t sounded all that enthused about it.

“Is this Juno person our caseworker?” Barbara asked, looking just as wary as he felt.

The receptionist’s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered. “All I know is, she personally asked to see you two.”

That… wasn’t encouraging. Still, they didn’t have much of a choice (kind of a running theme with them lately, huh?) so, with some reluctance, they followed the green-skinned woman’s directions. Sure enough, at the end of the hall was a door simply labeled “Juno”; though no title was listed, Adam could just _tell_ that this woman was important somehow. Barbara paused, meeting his eyes. He nodded hesitantly, and she pushed the door open.

The inside of the office wasn’t anything unusual -- plush chairs, bookshelves and filing cabinets lining the walls, sparse decoration suggesting that the room’s inhabitant was very no-nonsense. And she certainly looked the part, peering at them from behind her well-polished and meticulously-organized desk, hands clasped together. Even when sitting the woman was noticeably tall, with pallid skin, pointed ears, and piercing yellow eyes; whatever she was, she _definitely_ wasn’t human.

Beside her stood a man who looked strikingly similar, if about a foot or so shorter. His neon blue hair was slicked back and he was dressed like some of the business majors Adam had met in college, clipboard in his hands. Unlike the woman at the desk, the blue-haired man was smiling at them.

“Sit down,” Juno croaked; the couple scrambled into the chairs. “So. You’re probably wondering why I called the two of you to my office.”

Adam fidgeted a bit in his seat. “W-Well… Yeah…”

Juno nodded, her cat-like eyes shifting to the man next to her. “Rigel, if you would?”

“Y-Yes, of course!” The man -- Rigel, apparently -- straightened, flipped through the papers on his clipboard, and fixed the couple with a serious expression. “You see, normally newly-deads who pass into the Netherworld are registered with the Bureau and then assigned housing in one of our residential districts.”

“But…?” said Barbara.

“But,” said Rigel, “there’s been some… _complications_ with your paperwork. It’s not anything _you_ have done, but, ah… Let’s just say that things have been hectic lately--”

“That’s an understatement,” Juno muttered.

“--and your applications have been put on hold.”

“Wh-What does that mean?” Adam asked, already dreading the answer.

“It means the two of you must remain in your former house until further notice.”

The couple met each other’s gaze, eyes wide, a silent conversation passing between them. Barbara spoke up first, turning her attention back to Rigel.

“How long are we staying?”

“I can’t give you any definitive numbers yet, but…” The blue-haired man bit his lip, revealing sharp teeth, and gave them an apologetic look. “It’ll likely be about a hundred and twenty-five years, give or take a few decades.”

Adam choked. “ _A hundred and twenty-five years?!_ ”

“Depending on how long it takes us to process everything, yes.”

“You aren’t the first newly-deads we’ve met with today,” said Juno. “We’d already built up a backlog by the time you showed up; we can’t just push you to the front of the waiting list.”

Rigel nodded emphatically. “I assure you, you’ll be notified the moment we’re ready to review your applications! In the meantime, you’ll still have the help of your caseworker. All the necessary paperwork has already been filled out, so she’ll be able to follow you back to the mortal world.”

“So, uh… Who _is_ our caseworker?” asked Barbara.

“That would be me!” came a familiar voice from somewhere above them. Looking up, the couple found Ginger clinging to the ceiling -- had she been there the entire time? Much like when they first met, she gave them a little wave before descending onto Juno’s desk -- Juno shooting her a dirty look -- and twirled gracefully, ending with a flourish. 

“Ta-da! Betcha didn’t expect to see me again, huh?” 

Despite himself, Adam couldn’t keep the smile off his face, and he could tell his wife was feeling the same way. “I thought you said your job with us was over?”

“We don’t typically assign Guides as caseworkers,” Rigel explained, “but we’re stretched thin at the moment--”

“Another understatement,” Juno grumbled, pulling a flask out from under her desk and taking a swig.

“--and we, frankly, didn’t have the time or resources to find the two of you another one.”

“You’re not disappointed, are you?” Ginger asked, her enthusiasm waning a bit.

“Well... I can’t say it isn’t _unexpected_ ,” said Barbara, still grinning. “But honestly? I’d rather it be someone we’re already familiar with.”

“I-I agree!” said Adam. “I’d… I’d feel more comfortable that way, I think.”

“Even though I’m a spider?”

Adam’s smile turned a bit sheepish. “Better the spider you know than the one you don’t, y’know?”

Rigel let out a snort of laughter; Juno glared at him, and he quickly shut up.

Ginger, at least, seemed to find Adam’s remark touching. “Aww! I’m glad you guys were the first ones I Guided!”

“And we’re glad you were the one to Guide us!” Barbara said; to his surprise, Adam found that he agreed. Who knew he’d meet a spider he actually kind of liked?

“Well, isn’t that sweet,” Juno sneered, taking another swig from her flask. “If you’re done here, I’d like to get to the other newly-deads now.”

Something about what she said made Rigel clearly anxious -- or maybe it was simply the fact that she was drinking on the job, it was hard to tell. The man struck Adam as someone who didn’t often stand up to his boss (something Adam could empathize with), but whatever was bothering him was evidently enough for him to push through his nerves (something Adam had to admire).

“B-But, Mother, what about--”

Juno immediately rounded on the poor man, eyes blazing ( _literally_ , Adam realized with horror). “ _Don’t you dare finish that sentence._ ”

“I-I just-- What if he--”

“ _I mean it._ ”

Rigel snapped his mouth shut, ears drooping like a kicked puppy. Adam almost wanted to hug him, but that would’ve been weird and inappropriate and he had a feeling it would just make Juno angrier.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Juno said as she sat back down, eyeing the three of them. The fire that had been there only moments before had dimmed somewhat, but Adam could still see it flickering every now and then behind her thin irises. “Now get the hell out of my office.”

They _definitely_ didn’t need to be told twice. Never before had Adam moved so quickly, even when both of his legs had still been intact. It wasn’t until they were halfway down the hall that he realized just how _oppressive_ the atmosphere in that room had been. How did he not notice before? Was it some subtle thing, like-- like Juno was a raid boss, and she inflicted a stacking debuff on the party that gradually dealt more and more damage, until eventually the party was dead because the healers could no longer out-heal the debuff?

(Alright, so maybe all those years he spent playing World of Warcraft were affecting his analogies.)

“What was _that_ all about?” Barbara voiced the question that Adam was too afraid to voice himself.

Ginger buried herself in Barbara’s hair, having resumed her spot atop the ghost’s head (it was kind of adorable, really). “Ah, well, I’m not sure I can say…”

“It’s about my brother.”

Adam did a double-take -- when had Rigel followed them? And wouldn’t Juno be angry with him for disobeying her? She seemed like the kind of person who was a _real_ stickler for obedience.

“Don’t worry, I’m not the real Rigel; this is just a clone I made,” Rigel told them, only confusing Adam further -- both because he didn’t realize that was something the man could just _do_ , and because he was _pretty_ sure he hadn’t said any of that out loud.

Deciding it was best not to question it, Adam spoke up. “Your brother?”

“He’s been missing for almost half a year now,” said (the apparently fake) Rigel, expression serious. “Well, half a _breather_ year I mean, time works a little differently in the Netherworld-- A-Anyway, the point is, I’m… I’m worried about him.”

“Not gonna lie, I’ve had my suspicions,” said Ginger. “Is that why it’s been so topsy-turvy ‘round here lately?”

“Part of the reason, yes. Mother has diverted some of our resources towards searching for him because she thinks he’s somewhere in the Netherworld; I don’t. I… You see, he doesn’t work for the Bureau, and he travels to the mortal world a lot.”

“You think he’s still there,” said Barbara.

The Rigel clone nodded, wringing his hands nervously. “To be away for _this long_ , is… It’s unprecedented. He’s strong, b-but I’m afraid something bad might’ve happened to him.”

“I’m not sure how much help we would be…” Adam admitted, feeling sorry for the poor man; he clearly cared about his brother quite a lot. “But we can at least keep an eye out, right?”

“Right!” Barbara said, giving the Rigel clone a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry -- I’m sure you’ll find him.”

The clone was starting to look a bit teary-eyed. “Th-Thank you, that… That means a lot. Sorry for bothering you.”

“Oh, you weren’t a bother at all!” Barbara insisted; the clone just smiled and vanished into thin air. Adam couldn’t help but wonder if that was something all Netherworld residents could do, or just Rigel (and, presumably, his brother and Juno).

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of Ginger sighing -- at least, he assumed that’s what that noise was supposed to be. “Sheesh, you guys are way too nice. You don’t even know what his brother looks like!”

“Do _you_ know what his brother looks like?” Adam asked her.

“‘Course I do; I’ve _met_ him,” said Ginger. “And -- not to sound rude or anythin’, Rigel’s a nice guy and I really do sympathize -- but trust me when I say that the Netherworld is better off without that sleazeball in it.”

Barbara frowned. “He can’t be _that_ bad, can he?”

“You _really_ don’t want me answerin’ that question.”

Adam trusted the spider’s judgement enough to know that she was probably right, but still -- they’d made a promise. “Regardless, you’ll tell us if he shows up, right? Since you know him better than we do.”

“I… I guess the two’a you at least deserve a warnin’ if he does,” Ginger reluctantly agreed. “Not that you’re ever likely to meet him, what with bein’ bound to your house and all.”

“O-Oh… Right…”

Admittedly, Adam had forgotten all about that little detail. It was almost funny -- they’d only agreed to follow Ginger to the Netherworld _because_ they’d be trapped in their house otherwise, but it seemed they needn’t have bothered in the first place. 

Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad? The couple had spent the better part of their marriage making that house their own. All the blood and sweat and tears he’d poured into renovating and expanding -- not to mention his game collection, or the space in the attic Barbara had set aside for her pottery… It was just a bunch of _stuff_ , sure, but it was _their_ stuff, and there were so many memories and emotions attached to it all. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to let go so soon.

And when it was time to let go and give all their stuff away to their family (or to charity, because the Maitlands were nothing if not charitable, even in death), then that same house that they had lived in for almost a decade would be the perfect place to do it.

Hanging on to that thought, Adam let his wife lead them back through the waiting room -- giving the receptionist a nod of acknowledgment -- and into the near-endless tunnel they had entered the Netherworld from. According to Ginger, it _should_ have led them back to the same room where they had drawn the chalk door.

“If it didn’t,” she had told them, during a particularly grueling stretch of tunnel that had them walking at an uncomfortable incline, “then you’d know, ‘cause you’d be in Sandwormland.”

So why did this room look _nothing_ like any of the rooms in their house?

Adam and Barbara had a certain aesthetic, one that involved a lot of warm colors and thrifted antique furniture and an overabundance of potted plants. Really, it was a lot of things -- but the one thing it _wasn’t_ was minimalist. Sure, this room _looked_ to have roughly the same dimensions as their living room, but gone were all the shelves covered in knick-knacks that Adam couldn’t recall buying; gone was their too-big sofa with too many pillows and throw blankets; gone, gone, everything was _gone_. Even the floral wallpaper was gone, replaced with an off-white paint job that was, okay, admittedly rather tasteful -- but it wasn’t _them_.

Strangely, though, what stood out to Adam the most was the fact that the hole in their ceiling -- the one that he and Barbara had _fell through_ , the one that caused their death -- had evidently been patched up. The pile of broken floorboards must have been cleared away, too, and their bodies were nowhere to be found. He would’ve thought, maybe, that they’d been discovered and sent to the morgue, awaiting burial -- but that didn’t explain all this new, modern furniture. _Surely_ their home hadn’t been put up for sale already… had it?

Something suddenly clicked in his mind.

“Ginger,” Adam spoke up, trying (and failing) to keep his voice steady. “I-I just remembered something that Rigel told us. About how time worked differently in the Netherworld.”

“That it does!”

“How… how long would you say it’s been since we left?”

“I dunno… Probably a month or two? You guys _were_ in that waiting room for a while.”

Barbara paled. “S-So, that means…”

It meant that this house was no longer theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really ran away from me, not gonna lie -- it's almost twice the length of the previous one. This is where the cartoon's canon REALLY starts to creep in, case in point: Ginger. Sorry if she's OOC, I haven't watched the cartoon since I was a kid so I was relying mainly on Wikipedia and my own vague memories while I was writing her (I really should see if it's on Netflix or something, or else bite the bullet and find some non-legal way to watch it). I kinda struggled with how best to get her accent across -- I didn't want it to be TOO exaggerated, but I still wanted it to be present. Eventually I decided on the (probably inconsistent) mess you just read, though I like to think she's purposely toning it down to appear more "professional".
> 
> The guy with the metal pipe is based off of the story of Phineas Gage (except in Gage's case, getting a metal pipe pierced through his skull DIDN'T result in immediate death).
> 
> Rigel is based off of Donny from the cartoon -- his full name is Donald Rigel Shoggoth. My outline of this fic didn't even include him originally, but I liked the idea of him existing in this universe waaay too much, it adds even more potential for family drama. :)
> 
> Now that the Maitlands are here, I want to say that while I like beetlelands, I don't have any romance between them planned for this fic (aside from BJ being his typical horny self). Things are always subject to change, though!
> 
> Next chapter: Lydia meets their unexpected house guests and Betelgeuse tries to NOT be horny for like, five seconds.


	3. pen pals with a demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief mention of a child's death

Delia’s office was _exactly_ what Lydia had imagined it to be, all bright and colorful, like the woman herself. The first thing the teenager noticed, of course, was the “Live, Laugh, Love” poster directly behind the reception desk -- it was so stereotypical it nearly made her snort out loud. The rest of the walls were covered in Delia’s… _artwork_ was maybe too generous a word. Abominations? Crimes against humanity? However you’d describe them, they were ugly as sin and made Lydia’s eyes hurt if she stared at them for too long. How they didn’t scare all of Delia’s clients away was a mystery.

The room where the woman held her therapy sessions was just as colorful as the waiting area, though it was mercifully lacking in “artwork” (which made Lydia wonder if Delia was more self-aware than she let on). Crystals of all shapes and sizes dotted almost every available surface; she’d seen them plenty of times before through Skype, and they _were_ very pretty to look at, but their purpose was still unclear to Lydia. Less unclear were the candles, all with scents like _chamomile_ and _rosemary_ \-- but even then, the teenager got the feeling Delia thought aromatherapy was some miracle cure.

At least the room smelled nice.

And then there was Percy. Lydia was already somewhat familiar with the black cat (because he occasionally interrupted their Skype sessions; once, he even walked along Delia’s keyboard and turned off her webcam), but this was the first time she’d had the chance to hold him. Apparently, he was a certified therapy animal, which explained why she’d been asked if she had any allergies when she first started seeing Delia. The cat was currently dozing away in Lydia’s lap, the soft rumble of his purr doing much to ease her nerves.

“So, Lydia. How have you been since we last spoke?” Delia began, legs crossed, clipboard balanced on her knee -- the picture of professionalism. Her smile was kind, but it irritated Lydia all the same.

“Fine, I guess,” Lydia responded tersely.

It wasn’t that she _disliked_ Delia, necessarily, or thought she was a bad shrink (sorry -- _life coach_ ), it was just… Something about her bothered Lydia, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Maybe it was less to do with the woman herself, and more to do with how close she was with Lydia’s father. The teen had just begun to notice it in the past month -- like how Dad had dropped the “Ms.” when referring to the woman, or how Delia had started calling him “Charles” in return. It was weird, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Delia’s smile waned only briefly at Lydia’s flippant answer. “I hear you’ve finally moved into your new home! Do you like it?”

“Sure.”

“What do you like about it?”

“It’s big.”

The session continued on like that for a good twenty minutes, with Delia asking simple questions and Lydia answering with mostly one or two-word sentences. It was a rhythm the both of them were intimately familiar with, dating back to the teen’s very first appointment. Lydia hadn’t been especially… _forthcoming_ , but not without trying -- she just found it difficult to talk about herself, the words always dying on her lips or getting stuck in her throat. She wasn’t the greatest conversationalist even at the best of times, let alone with someone she only spoke to for an hour every other week.

(It didn’t help that Delia came across as some homeopathy-peddling anti-vaxxer. When Lydia made an off-hand comment about it Delia had assured her, _multiple times_ , that she _wasn’t_ anti-vax why would you even _think_ that she was simply more _in-tune_ with nature is _that_ so _wrong_.)

Since then, Delia always started their sessions with what she called a “warm-up”, just to get Lydia talking. And, as much as the teenager hated to admit it... it kind of worked. It wasn’t long before those one or two-word sentences became _three_ -word sentences, or four, or five, and eventually Lydia found herself divulging more and more details about her life.

“--usually pausing like, a million times to go do something else for a while, but this time I didn’t pause it _once_ , it was _so good_.”

“Oh yes, I haven’t seen it yet myself but I have heard that it has good reviews!” Delia interjected before Lydia could continue gushing over _Knives Out_ (and, okay, so _maybe_ she’d gone a little overboard, she nearly spoiled the whole movie twice). “I’m glad that you’ve found something that makes you happy.”

“I wouldn’t say _happy_ …” Lydia countered, and she knew it must’ve sounded like she was being a contrarian, but it was true. Just because she enjoyed something, that didn’t mean she was suddenly _happy_.

She didn’t know _what_ she was feeling, really, but it wasn’t happiness.

Delia gave her a knowing look. “Is there something on your mind?”

“I…” Lydia hesitated. There were a _lot_ of things on her mind if she were being honest, like how her new school had a _uniform_ , or how the real estate agent had been suspiciously cagey when Dad asked them who their house’s previous owners had been… or that note Mom had supposedly written.

Yeah, she hadn’t forgotten about that.

Ever since Lydia read that note, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was just so… so _weird_ , it sounded _nothing_ like her mother and yet it sounded nothing like her _father_ , either, but who else could have written it if _not_ them? Lydia didn’t have any friends, none of _Dad’s_ friends would have done it, all of their relatives were living on the west coast -- _so who the heck wrote that note?_

There was, of course, one possible explanation. In fact, it was the _only_ explanation that made sense, and Lydia hated it, because it meant that she’d been wrong this entire time. If her mother hadn’t written the note, then…

Then her mother wasn’t the spirit that had been following her for half a year, who was still following her.

They hadn’t lied about _that_ part, at least. Lydia could sense them during the drive to Connecticut, during their stay at the hotel -- even _now_ , while she sat here, running a hand through Percy’s glossy fur, she could tell that the spirit was outside in the waiting room with her father. It was almost funny, imagining the ghost sitting in one of the empty chairs, with everyone else none the wiser. Dad would probably freak out if he knew.

(Not that he’d ever believe her.)

But if the spirit wasn’t Lydia’s mother, that meant they _were_ intentionally avoiding her -- and then, for whatever reason, decided to lie about their reasons and (very poorly) impersonate Mom. What kind of ghost haunted someone for _this_ long yet didn’t talk to them directly? It was _mind-boggling_ , it--

“Lydia?”

With a start, Lydia turned her attention back to Delia, suddenly aware of just how silent she’d been these past few minutes. “I-It’s nothing.”

Delia was frowning, but she (thankfully) didn’t push the issue. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss, then?”

With that elegant change of subject, the remainder of their session seemed to fly by, and before Lydia knew it her hour was already up. As much as she was… _okay_ with Delia, the teen couldn’t help but feel relieved whenever their sessions ended. Talking so much all at once was _exhausting_ , she could never understand how that woman could be such an endless fount of chatter.

“Oh, before you leave…!” Delia exclaimed while Lydia was gently lifting Percy from her lap. She stood and watched as the woman plucked a pink crystal from one of her display shelves, turned it over in her hand with a look of intense contemplation, and set it back down. This continued on for a few minutes, and by the time Delia seemed to settle on a crystal she must have gone through almost half of her collection.

“Amethyst,” said Delia, pressing the chunk of purple crystal into Lydia’s hands. “For stress relief.”

Lydia blinked. “Uh… thanks?”

“And don’t worry about setting up our next appointment; your father’s already taken care of it!”

That was… strange. It wasn’t like Dad to suddenly take up what had previously been _her_ responsibility -- something about instilling in the teenager a sense of independence -- and Lydia considered asking him about it, but as she stepped into the waiting room she found that her father was nowhere to be seen. Even stranger, she couldn’t sense the _spirit_ anywhere, either.

Beside her, she could see Delia frown and pull out her phone, frantically texting who Lydia could only assume was Dad. When no response came, Delia stormed out of the office; Lydia had to fall into a brisk walk to keep up with her, silently apologizing to the handful of people still in the waiting room.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for them to find Lydia’s father, as the moment they descended the stairs to the second floor they discovered him talking rather heatedly to another man. It was difficult for Lydia to pin down the guy’s age -- he looked like he could be a college student, but then, she didn’t exactly know enough college students to make that comparison. His hair was wildly unkempt, sticking out in every direction and dyed a bright green; his clothes were entirely black and pretty unremarkable, save for the high-heeled boots he wore; and he was, in a word, short.

Lydia wondered, idly, if that was why he was wearing those boots.

“Just return the phone, and I won’t press charges,” she heard her father growl as they approached. It was impressive how unfazed the green-haired guy looked -- Lydia knew first hand just how intimidating her father could be, and that effect would only have been enhanced by the two men’s height difference. The guy took notice of them first, eyes wide as Lydia caught his gaze.

There was something strange about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on it...

“What’s going on here?” Delia demanded as she strode up to Lydia’s father, ignoring the other man entirely.

“This _man_ ,” Dad said, gesturing aggressively to the green-haired guy, “has been stalking Lydia.”

“I-I told you, it was just a lucky guess!” said the other man, raising his hands defensively, one empty and the other gripping what looked to be her father’s smartphone. His voice was scratchy, like he was a life-long smoker -- but what truly caught Lydia’s attention was his nails, which she just now noticed were sharp and painted black, the tips red as though they had been dipped in blood.

“ _Bullshit_ \--” Wow, Lydia’s dad must _really_ be angry if he was swearing in front of her. “--there’s no way you could have known who my daughter was _unless_ you’ve been stalking her!”

“I, I saw the name on your phone, okay?” the green-haired guy explained. “And your wife’s dead, so by process of elimination I--”

The man abruptly cut himself off and snapped his mouth shut, staring at the three of them like a deer in headlights. They stared back, all of them seemingly at a loss for words. After an uncomfortably long silence, Lydia’s father spoke up again.

“How… how do you know that…?”

Another awkward silence. The man’s eyes darted from Dad, to Delia, and finally to Lydia -- and it was at that moment Lydia realized what was so odd about him. It hadn’t quite registered when she and Delia first approached them, the teen too distracted by everything else to focus her sixth sense, but there was no mistaking it.

This guy was the spirit she’d been sensing for nearly seven months.

At least, that’s what it _felt_ like. Lydia’s sixth sense had never been very precise; they were either _there_ , or they weren’t. For all she knew, the spirit could just happen to be in the vicinity. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d mistaken a living person for a ghost -- once, in elementary school, she thought their librarian was a ghost because the library was always empty and no one else ever acknowledged her. 

(It later turned out that the library was so empty because the _real_ ghost -- a third-grader who had died the previous year of anaphylactic shock -- had led everyone else to think the same thing.)

And yet, Lydia could tell there was more to him than met the eye. He just, he gave off this _vibe_ , like he wasn’t human...

“Think fast!”

Startled, Lydia almost didn’t catch the phone that was thrown her way, and before she could react (or ask him all the questions swirling through her head) the green-haired man had already run off. Her father looked like he wanted to chase after him, but Delia held him back.

“You can file a report later, just, take Lydia home first,” she said.

An array of emotions flashed across his face before he finally seemed to settle on tired resignation. “Right. Sorry for keeping you, your other clients must be getting impatient.”

Delia blinked owlishly -- jeez, had she forgotten she had other clients? “O-Oh! Yes, I should probably get back to work… Please, let me know if that man shows up again.”

“I will,” Dad said with a nod, gripping Lydia’s shoulder defensively.

As they parted ways with Delia, Lydia passed the smartphone to her father. Yet, even with his phone back in his possession, Dad still seemed agitated, like he was worried the green-haired guy would come back at any moment to kidnap her.

Lydia supposed she couldn’t blame him. If her hunch was right (and her hunches were usually right), then his assumption that the guy was stalking them wasn’t _entirely_ wrong. She’d even noticed, as he was running away, that the spirit’s presence disappeared with him, all but confirming that they were one and the same. That tell-tale chill had since returned, and as they drove home Lydia peered out of the car window every now and then to see if she could spot him -- of course, he’d had over half a year to perfect his hide-and-seek game.

But she had another way to communicate with him now.

The teenager made a beeline for her bedroom the moment they arrived home. While most of her stuff had been unpacked, some things were still in boxes; thankfully, her art and photography supplies weren’t among them. Taking a seat at her desk, Lydia set down the amethyst Delia had given her and pulled open the top drawer, revealing the note that her “mother” had written.

Up until they moved into the house she’d kept the note with her, folded and tucked away in her book bag. It was a little wrinkled and torn now, but it was still legible (well, as legible as the handwriting allowed; seriously, did the spirit think she’d be fooled by such a crappy job?). Smoothing out the paper, she flipped it over, grabbed a pencil from the second drawer -- and paused.

What should she even say to him?

Lydia had _so many_ questions -- what had he been talking about with her father? Why did he pretend to be her mother? Why had he been avoiding her until now? Was he a ghost, or was he something else?

Maybe… maybe she should start with the basics.

**. . .**

_Who are you?_

_~ Lydia_

**. . .**

Alright, so Betelgeuse _might_ have fucked up. Again.

Look, it wasn’t his fault, okay? Not entirely. Sure, he _had_ provoked Mr. Deetz, and he _was_ a bit of a smartass about it, but -- well, let’s rewind, shall we?

He’d never been a big fan of offices or waiting rooms, and the waiting room to Deborah’s office was fucking _awful_. Like, offensively so. The bright colors gave him a headache, the ugly art gave him an even _bigger_ headache, and he couldn’t tell where that annoying music was coming from but he wished it would stop.

The worst part, though? It was _boring_.

So why did the demon come here in the first place? To be honest, Betelgeuse had asked himself that very question multiple times. There wasn’t any _reason_ for him to be there; Lydia could handle herself just fine, but even if she couldn’t her dad was there with her. And although this was apparently her first time meeting the woman in person, he’d seen the kid talk to Darcy over the internet, so it wasn’t as if she were a _complete_ stranger.

The only satisfactory explanation that Betelgeuse could come up with was that, while this place was dull, it at the very least wasn’t as dull and… and _empty_ as the Deetzes’ new house. Maybe it was just because he hadn’t acclimated to it yet, but the demon _hated_ being in that house, it was way too big and yet felt claustrophobic at the same time, like--

(Like he was a kid again, trapped in a too-big house because Ma was ashamed of taking him out in public.)

That, and he could still smell the stench of newly-deads hanging onto every inch of that building. Knowing that he had _just_ missed them was endlessly frustrating; messing with newly-deads was his favorite hobby (next to orgies). Then again, they probably would’ve gotten in the way of his whole hide-from-Lydia plan. You win some, you lose some.

(Of course, it turned out Betelgeuse could ruin that plan just fine on his own.)

It started, as all things did, because he got bored. Well, okay, he was bored the moment Lydia disappeared behind the sparkly butterfly-adorned door that led to the other room ( _fucking hell_ , was Demi going through a Lisa Frank phase when she painted that monstrosity?). Betelgeuse first tried to occupy himself by replacing whatever magazine Mr. Deetz was reading every time he looked away, but that became increasingly difficult to pull off as more and more people entered the waiting room. _Then_ Betelgeuse tried repeatedly untying Mr. Deetz’s tie, but that got old fast. So, it was time to get creative.

As he’d mentioned in the first chapter, Betelgeuse was _really bad_ at controlling his shapeshifting. That didn’t mean he _couldn’t_ shapeshift at will (after all, how else could he have transformed into a giant snake?), it simply required a lot of concentration. Something the demon was in short supply of. Boredom, though, was a _great_ motivator, and could more than make up for his wildly unstable magic (provided his attention wasn’t drawn elsewhere halfway through the transformation).

Thankfully, what he had in mind didn’t even require too much of a change in appearance. All Betelgeuse had to do was mask his more _demon-y_ features and he could pass reasonably well as a goth with a severe vitamin deficiency. And, after some deliberation, he decided to ditch the striped suit for something that _wouldn’t_ stick out like a sore thumb (his green hair would do that well enough as is).

Hiding himself away in the bathroom down the hall, the demon made himself tangible for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He had no idea when Lydia would be done with her therapy thing, but even if she came out of that room and spotted him, all she would find was another human. Her sixth sense couldn’t _possibly_ be strong enough to see through his disguise… right?

Fuck, he hoped he was right.

(He wasn’t.)

Betelgeuse took a look at himself in the mirror; call him biased, but he made a _damn_ fine human. Hell, if he wasn’t careful, he might end up seducing Mr. Deetz -- not that he’d say no, but fucking the kid’s dad and his client’s ex-husband would… _complicate_ his job. In fact, he should probably stop himself right there before he got all worked up-- okay, no, too late for that. Shit.

After rubbing one out, he finally, _finally_ left the bathroom and made his way back to Dana’s office. The only acknowledgement the demon received when he entered the waiting room was a brief glance from Mr. Deetz, and as Betelgeuse sat down next to him he tried not to think about how he’d just imagined the man bending him over a table a short while ago. About five or ten minutes passed before it suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t really have a plan beyond disguising himself as a human. 

He probably should have thought this through more.

At that moment, Mr. Deetz pulled out his phone; sensing an opportunity, Betelgeuse quickly snatched it from the breather’s hands.

“ _Yoink!_ ”

“Wha--” Oh man, the look on the guy’s face was _hilarious_. “Wh-What do you think you’re doing?!”

Betelgeuse shrugged. “Never had one of these before. Wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

“Then buy your own!”

“Nah. Hey, can you get porn on this thing?”

Mr. Deetz lunged for the phone; Betelgeuse stood up on the chair and held the device high above his head, out of the man’s reach. At this point the demon was _certain_ they were making a scene. A quick glance around the waiting room and, yes, everyone -- even the tired-eyed receptionist -- was staring at them now.

 _Perfect_.

Keeping the phone as far away from the man as his height would allow, Betelgeuse hopped from the chair and smacked Mr. Deetz lightly on the shoulder as he dashed out of the room, giggling.

“Tag, you’re it!”

Betelgeuse had already reached the staircase by the time he saw Mr. Deetz exit the office. It took the demon a few tries to figure out how to work the phone (damn technology, always progressing faster than he could keep up with), but he finally managed to unlock it, revealing what looked to be some sort of day planner already open. Ugh, of _course_ the breather would be one of _those_ people. One particular entry caught Betelgeuse’s eye, and he read it aloud as Mr. Deetz drew closer.

“ _Date with Delilah, nine o’clock?_ ”

“Her name is Delia,” Mr. Deetz said with a frown.

“Huh?” Betelgeuse squinted at the screen, but it still looked like it read “Delilah” to him. Then again, his brother _did_ tell him once that he was… what was the word? Dyslexic? “Whatever. So, who’s this lady you’re dating?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Maybe so. But I wonder… What would Lydia think?”

Mr. Deetz froze. “What…?”

(Realization that he’d fucked up in three… Two…)

“Y’know -- your daughter?” said Betelgeuse.

(One.)

The demon paused. He stared at Mr. Deetz. Mr. Deetz stared back. There was an uncomfortable silence -- and then Betelgeuse _bolted_ down the stairs. Unfortunately, he tripped on the third-to-last step (alright, so _maybe_ he should have ditched the boots, too), and before he could recover he felt Mr. Deetz grab his arm and slam him into the nearby wall. Betelgeuse had never seen the man this _furious_ before, even after all these months he’d spent observing the Deetzes.

 _Fuck_ , it was kinda hot.

“ _How do you know my daughter?_ ” Mr. Deetz snarled and _Jesus Christ_ , Betelgeuse really couldn’t handle this. Maybe he should just spend an entire day masturbating and get it out of his system.

“L-Lucky guess…?” the demon stammered, hoping to all that was unholy that his hair was behaving itself right now.

“ _Don’t lie to me!_ ” Wow, déjà vu.

“I’m not! I… I was…”

“Have you been stalking her?”

Well, that was _one_ way to put it… But if Mr. Deetz didn’t believe his own daughter when she brought up the whole ghost mom thing, Betelgeuse doubted the man would believe that a _complete stranger_ was actually a demon sent by said ghost mom to watch over said daughter. At least Betelgeuse was good at bullshitting -- and in any other circumstance he was sure he’d have done a bang-up job, but between maintaining his disguise and holding back the urge to just tear his pants off right then and there, the demon was finding it difficult to think straight (in more ways than one). The best he could do was attempt to school his expression into one less obviously flustered, if only to maintain some semblance of dignity.

It was almost a relief when Lydia and Daria showed up -- or it _would_ have been, but Betelgeuse just _had_ to put his foot in his mouth, _again_ , and then Lydia got this look on her face like she _knew_ and the demon just sorta. Panicked.

Yeah, it definitely wasn’t his proudest moment.

He waited until he was a sufficient distance away (and clear of other breathers) before dropping his disguise, but at that point he was sure the damage had already been done. If there was one thing Betelgeuse had learned over the months, it was that the kid was smart. Hell, it was a miracle he’d managed to stay hidden from her for this long; there was _no way_ she wouldn’t at least be suspicious, especially after that embarrassing display. The demon had quite thoroughly fucked up.

(And, to add insult to injury, he was still feeling kind of horny.)

Betelgeuse’s fears were confirmed when the family returned home. He watched Lydia head straight for her bedroom without so much as a word to her father; curious, the demon followed her upstairs and found the teenager hunched over her desk, pencil in hand. He’d seen this behavior before; usually, it meant she was in one of her drawing moods and was about to spend the entire evening sketching almost non-stop. 

Yet, to his surprise, Lydia only made a handful of quick strokes before setting the pencil down. The moment she left her room, Betelgeuse drifted over to her desk and peered at the piece of paper -- and realized that what she'd been working on _wasn’t_ a drawing, but a note. As the demon read each word, his heart skipped a beat for the first time in three centuries.

Fuck.

 _She knew_.

**. . .**

An entire day passed with no response from the spirit, and to say that Lydia was getting frustrated would be an understatement. She was _sure_ he must have read the note, it was out in the open and she’d sensed his presence in her room at _least_ once, so why hadn’t he written anything yet? Was he seriously going to ignore her again, after everything that happened?

 _God_ , why’d she have to get stuck with such a stubborn ghost?

Lydia had taken to going up into the attic ever since she’d discovered it the day they moved in. It was quiet, and the window in the back of the room led directly to the roof -- a good place to take photos of the neighboring landscape, or just to chill. She was up there now, watching the pinks and oranges of the sunset as she sketched. As much as she wished he would stop being so elusive, Lydia was kind of glad she couldn’t sense the spirit at that moment; if he knew that she was drawing him…

Halfway through rendering his mane of hair, the teenager suddenly felt a chill run down her spine. It was the kind of chill that _normally_ signaled the spirit’s presence, except… this time, it felt different.

In fact, it didn’t feel like him _at all_.

She spun around and found herself face-to-face with two strangers staring wide-eyed at her through the attic window. One of them -- a man with neat brown hair and glasses -- visibly flinched and took a step back. The other -- a woman with long blonde hair and a flowery green dress -- did the opposite, wrenching the window open and stepping out onto the roof. Before Lydia could react, the woman reached out to grab her--

\--and her hand passed right through Lydia’s arm.

Ah. So they _were_ ghosts.

“What…?” the woman gasped, staring at Lydia in clear distress. Lydia felt a little bad for her; either she didn’t realize she was dead, or she didn’t realize the dead couldn’t touch the living.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” came another voice, though the source was unclear -- until Lydia noticed the _pink spider_ crawling through the open window and up the woman’s leg, finally resting on her head. All eight eyes blinked in unison, gaze fixed on the teenager. “Wait… can she see us?”

“I-I think so,” said the man.

“Yep,” said Lydia.

The woman gaped at her. “You-- you can?”

“Unless I’m hallucinating right now, but I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Ohmigosh!” exclaimed (what Lydia assumed to be) the spider, voice bubbling with excitement. “I’d heard that some breathers were natural mediums, but I never thought I’d meet one myself!”

“Could you come back inside now?” the man piped up. “You’re kind of… making me nervous…”

“Of course, sorry,” said the woman, flashing the man an apologetic look before turning back to Lydia with a gentle smile. “C’mon; it isn’t safe up here.”

Well, Lydia supposed there was no use arguing. She followed the woman back through the window, shutting it closed behind her once her feet were touching the attic floor again. Now that she could get a better look at him, Lydia noticed that the man had something wrapped around one of his legs -- a flannel shirt?

“Ah, I uh, I broke my leg,” said the man; evidently, he saw her staring.

“I see.” Lydia tilted her head to the side, curious. “Was that when you died, or…?”

“Y-Yes, we… We fell.”

“From here to the first floor,” said the woman. She sounded distant, like she was talking about someone else; a coping mechanism, Lydia assumed. Though, something about what she said caught the teenager’s attention...

And then it clicked.

“This house… It was yours, wasn’t it?”

The woman gave her a sad smile. “That’s right. We’re… My name is Barbara Maitland, and this is my husband, Adam.”

“And I’m Ginger!” the spider added, waving her forelimbs around enthusiastically. “So, what’s _your_ name? And how long have you been able t’see ghosts?”

“Lydia, and as long as I can remember,” Lydia answered, amused -- she knew she should probably be more freaked out right now, but honestly? A talking spider was kind of cool. That, and it was rather refreshing, speaking to ghosts that were actually friendly and _didn’t_ avoid her like the plague.

Did the spirit know that these guys were here, too? And how did she not sense them until now? They’d been in this house for like, a week at this point; had they somehow been here the entire time without her knowing, or did they just show up...?

“Hey, uh… how long have you guys been in this house?” Lydia asked.

“Almost ten years!” said Barbara.

“No, I mean since you died.”

“Oh, um... “ Adam looked to his wife -- or Ginger, Lydia couldn’t quite tell. “We were… _away_ , for a little while.”

“They died about two months ago,” Ginger explained. “Then they tried to…” She paused. “They, uh, tried to pass on… but they couldn’t! ‘Cause they had, y’know, unfinished business.”

“A-And we just got back today!” said Barbara. Lydia had a sneaking suspicion they weren’t telling her the truth, but she decided not to call them out on it (yet).

“I see,” said Lydia. She turned to Ginger, eyebrow raised. “What’s the deal with _you_ , then?”

“I’m-- I’m here to help them, of course!”

“So you’re… what? Their familiar?”

“Y-Yes, exactly!”

“Really?” Lydia said. “‘Cause I’ve met a lot of ghosts, and none of them ever had familiars.”

The spider blinked. “Er, w-well…”

“She’s special!” Adam interjected, and by the expression on his face he was just as surprised by his outburst as everyone else was. Embarrassed, he pressed on anyway, “I-I mean… Our circumstances are a little different, so she… she was assigned especially to us.”

Barbara nodded emphatically, nearly sending poor Ginger flying. “Right! It’s, uh, very rare for a ghost to have a familiar, you see!”

“Y-Yeah!”

“Okay, okay, I believe you guys,” Lydia said -- she didn’t, really, but whatever they were hiding wasn’t worth upsetting them over. For all she knew, they weren’t _able_ to tell her.

“Anyways,” said Ginger, clearly wanting to change the subject, “I’ve been wonderin’, what’s that you got in your hands?”

Lydia looked down at the book pressed against her chest, the drawing she’d been working on hidden from view. “It’s my sketchbook.”

“You draw?” said Barbara, looking excited.

“Yeah. That’s what I was doing on the roof.”

“Can we see?” asked Adam. “I-If you don’t mind, that is.”

Lydia hesitated. Should… should she show them? They’d likely run into the spirit eventually, but she had no idea how _he_ would react to _them_. As certain as she was that he wasn’t malevolent, she didn’t want to risk them getting into an altercation with him, especially since they didn’t seem like the type to put up much of a fight.

Then again, they might be able to coax him into talking to her...

At her silence, Adam began to backpedal. “You don’t need to show us if you don’t feel comfortable--”

“It’s fine,” said Lydia. “I just-- Here.”

Turning the sketchbook around, Lydia revealed the half-finished drawing of the spirit. It could probably be more detailed, but Lydia had only seen his face for a few minutes; still, she was kind of happy with how it was turning out. Once she was done with it she was planning on leaving it out on her desk, next to the note -- if _that_ didn’t get his attention, she didn’t know _what_ would.

Both of the Maitlands were peering at the drawing with the kind of open interest she’d only ever received from her art teachers. It was a little overwhelming, but at the same time… kind of nice. These guys really wore their hearts on their sleeves, huh?

“It’s really good!” said Barbara, giving the teen a bright smile. “Who is it supposed to be?”

“A cryptid,” Lydia replied; at their confused expressions, she added, “I’m joking. Sort of. He’s just this ghost that’s been following me for… about seven months now, I think?”

There was another beat of silence as the Maitlands looked to one another, eyes wide. Some sort of silent conversation passed between them, and a moment later they turned back to Lydia.

“He’s-- He’s been following you…?” said Barbara.

“Yeah.”

“For _seven months_?”

“Yep.”

Adam paled. “H-He hasn’t hurt you, has he?”

“No. He won’t even talk to me directly.”

The Maitlands once again met each other’s eyes; it was almost funny, the way they seemed to be on the same wavelength. Lydia had a feeling she knew what they were going to say; her father had reacted similarly when he had his run-in with the spirit. And she knew how bad it sounded, she wasn’t _naïve_ , but if they immediately assumed the guy was dangerous then things were even _more_ likely to go south. The last thing she wanted was for them to chase him away because of a misunderstanding.

“Whatever you’re thinking, just-- Trust me when I say that it isn’t a big deal.”

“How can you be certain?” Barbara asked, and Lydia recognized that look -- it was the same concerned look her father and Delia had yesterday.

She hated it.

“Because I-- I _know_ him!”

“You just said you haven’t spoken to him directly!”

“But I can _sense_ him, and-- Look, just follow me, okay?”

Without waiting for a response, Lydia passed through Barbara and Adam (only feeling sort of bad about it) and left the attic. Thankfully, she could sense them following her, and the teenager led the two ghosts (and Ginger) to her bedroom. She strode over to her desk, intending to show the Maitlands the note he had written to her -- and paused.

Below _her_ note, in that familiar messy scrawl, were two words:

_BEETEL JUICE_

Lydia stared at the note, reading those two words over and over and over. What… what did it mean? Was it his name? She assumed he misspelled “beetle”, so… what, his name was _Beetle Juice_? Or was it a code, like a cipher or something? Let’s see, if each letter corresponded to a number--

“ _I knew it!_ ” Ginger cried, startling Lydia out of her thoughts. The teenager looked up to find the Maitlands leaning over her shoulder, but the spider was nowhere to be seen -- until movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she found Ginger crawling towards the note on her desk. Lydia blinked.

“Knew what…?”

“When I saw that picture you drew, I thought the guy looked familiar.” Come to think of it, Ginger _had_ been pretty quiet… “But now I know for sure -- he looks a _lot_ like Rigel’s brother.”

Lydia didn’t know who this Rigel guy was, but judging from their expressions the Maitlands certainly did. Barbara was the one to break out of her stunned silence first.

“So, the person who’s been following Lydia...”

“Yup. It’s gotta be him.”

Now Lydia was _really_ confused. “Do you know him?”

“Unfortunately,” said Ginger, and for some reason she sounded almost… pitying? “And I regret to inform you that this guy is _not_ a ghost.”

Wait, what?

“He’s a demon.”

Wait.

_What?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! First of all, I want to thank everyone for all the comments and kudos I've gotten so far; I'm glad people are enjoying this thing! 
> 
> Some miscellaneous notes:
> 
> \- Percy is, of course, from the cartoon. I like to think Delia's line about getting a cat in "No Reason" isn't just a joke about lonely cat ladies, but also a subtle reference to him.  
> \- Beetlejuice/Charles is NOT going to be a pairing (beetlelands is still sort of pending -- I have some ideas for a sequel to this fic where it's more of a focus, but that's a long way off).  
> \- ...I had way more to say, but now I'm drawing a blank. Whoops.
> 
> Next chapter: Betelgeuse is forced to make a dramatic entrance (thanks a LOT, Ginger). Lydia finally learns the true nature of Charles and Delia's relationship. The Maitlands regret everything.


End file.
